


burns like ice

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant's been trained to fight through pain, but he can’t quite manage it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burns like ice

**Author's Note:**

> safelycapricious prompted "Biospec things you said I wouldn’t understand" and it got...a little out of hand.
> 
> (Remember when things getting out of hand meant like 4000+ words for me? Writing is like pulling teeth anymore, idk. I'm losing my muse, I guess.)
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant wakes to cold fingers on his forehead and a warm weight at his hip. Instinct kicks in and he tries to shoot to his feet, find out where he is and who’s touching him and _why_ , but he barely makes it an inch before screaming agony punches him in the side.

He’s been trained to fight through pain, but he can’t quite manage it now. All he can do is curl in on himself and _breathe_ , trying not to be sick as pain hits him in searing waves.

“Shh, you’re all right.” A familiar hand rubs cold circles on his back, easing a little of his struggle. “Deep breaths, that’s it.”

“Simmons,” he chokes. “What—?”

What the fuck is she doing here, he means to ask, but another jolt of pain steals his voice. Simmons tuts, sounding for all the world like they’re back on the Bus and she’s caught him doing push-ups an hour after getting stitches.

Her skin is freezing against his, but he feels like he’s burning up, so it’s nice—a soothing, cool pressure sweeping along his spine. He’d swear he can feel her touch to his bones.

“Everything’s fine,” she says calmly. “You’ve been shot with poisoned bullets, but you’ll be all right. The antidote needs time to work—and I’m afraid those bullet wounds aren’t going anywhere even once it does, so you’ve an unpleasant few months ahead of you.”

“Awesome,” he manages, even as he wonders who the hell would waste time on making poisoned bullets. The whole point of shooting someone is to kill them; why bother poisoning them, too?

The pain flares again, answering his question for him. Getting shot is a bitch and it’s happened to him way too often, but this is a hundred times worse than every other time _combined_. Even if it only took someone half a second to die, it’d be an extra painful half a second.

Whoever made these bullets must’ve been a vindictive bastard. Grant’d approve if he weren’t so busy fighting the urge to puke.

In any case, as helpful as Simmons’ update is, she’s failed to answer the most important question: namely, what the hell _she’s_ doing playing medic for him again. She tried to _kill_ him the last time they met, for fuck’s sake.

That answer’s gonna have to wait, though, because he just can’t find the breath to ask any questions. So he stays where he is—half on top of her, he realizes belatedly; it’s her thigh his cheek is resting on, not a pillow—and lets her gentle touch soothe him as his pain flares and fades.

(He tries really, really hard not to think of Kara. Mostly he fails.)

Eventually whatever antidote he’s been given— _her_ antidote, maybe? Maybe she’s using him as a test subject, that’d explain it—works its magic. It’s a lot more gradual than he’d like, but in time, the fire in his veins dwindles to a much more tolerable level.

He can fight like this. He’d really prefer _not_ to, but he can if he needs to. _And_ he can ask questions.

So he slowly, gingerly shifts off of Simmons and—with her unasked for assistance—sits back against the headboard of his bed. Now that he’s sitting up (and not distracted by blistering pain), he realizes they’re in his bedroom. Ortilla’s leaning against the wall near the door; he salutes Grant with a relieved grin when their eyes meet.

“Glad to see you looking better, Director,” he says.

Grant thanks him with a nod. “Better’s kind of a stretch.”

“Anything’s better than dead,” Ortilla says philosophically.

He could argue that, but he’s not really in the mood to get that deep with one of his men. So he shrugs a little (huge mistake; _ow_ ) and turns his attention to Simmons.

“So,” he says, “not that I don’t appreciate the care, but what exactly are you doing here?”

“Helping you.” She gives him a disapproving frown. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he says, “I’m grateful. But this—” he gestures to her, perched on the edge of his bed and wearing a sweater stained with what he assumes is his blood— “is a long way from trying to disintegrate me. Since when are we back on doctor/patient terms?”

Simmons looks away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he invites.

She remains stubbornly silent. Grant looks to Ortilla, who shrugs.

“She was at the warehouse,” he reports. “Said you’d die if we didn’t bring her along, and you were bleeding green, so…” He shrugs again. “Markham figured she couldn’t make you worse.”

Well, there’s another mystery: what the hell was she doing in one of Blackwood’s warehouses? He gives her a quick once-over, but she doesn’t look like someone who’s been kidnapped or held prisoner recently, and it’s really the only explanation that comes to mind. No way would _Jemma Simmons_ willingly work for a guy like Blackwood—and if he was on SHIELD’s radar, Grant’d know.

But Grant’s still more concerned with the first issue: why would she _care_ that he was going to die, let alone take steps to prevent it?

“Lemme guess,” he says to Simmons, “you wanted to kill me yourself?”

Her mouth goes tight. She shakes her head.

“C’mon, Simmons. You gotta give me _something_.”

“Saving your life wasn’t something enough?” she asks, and then turns to Ortilla without waiting for a response. “Now that you’ve been assured he’s in recovery, is there somewhere I can clean up?”

Ortilla looks to Grant for permission.

“Take her to the guest room,” he says. He’s feeling about ready to pass out anyway, and it’s not like they’re on a time limit. “She can do what she wants, but don’t let her leave.” He smiles nicely at Simmons. “You don’t mind staying for a while, do you, Jemma? At the very least, I owe you a proper thank you.”

She flushes when he calls her Jemma.

Interesting.

“Or you could stay in my room,” he suggests, deciding to push it a little. “I could thank you now.”

“Not in your condition, you couldn’t,” she says tartly, and stands—though not before he catches sight of her blush. “I’ll be back in four hours to check your bandages. Try not to injure yourself further in the meantime.”

It’d be easy to keep her from walking away. Even wounded, he’s fully capable of overpowering her—hell, there’s a decent chance she wouldn’t fight him at all for fear of him undoing all her hard work.

But there’ll be time for answers later, and he’ll be better able to analyze her when he’s not distracted by the constant throbbing in his side. So he puts a pin on this thought to save it for later—seriously, it’s been more than a year since he was able to make her blush, this is a very interesting development—and waves her away.

“Feel free to come back sooner,” he invites, even as he slides carefully down to lie on his back. “Not like I’m going anywhere.”

“No,” she agrees. “No, you’re not.”

With that, she follows Ortilla out of the room, leaving Grant to ponder the strange note of relief in her voice.


End file.
